


For King and Country

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Crack Treated Slightly Seriously, Kitschy Marriage of Convenience AU devolving into Food Porn, M/M, Spot the Stealth Crossover You Get a Strudel, Starring Winston as the 12th Earl of Sandwich, This is NOT a Treatise on Immigration don't take me too serious, Very Inaccurate Representations of the British Royal Family, and John as himself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-07-25 11:50:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20025346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Utter crackfic where Winston gets sort of investigated for his suspect immigration status and he decides the best course of action would be to propose to and marry John Wick.And since life keeps giving a man lemons, the Queen of England gets involved, and Charon hasn’t planned a proper wedding since 1999. Oops.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> UM. So this has been on my drive for ages. Thank you so much to flowerdeluce for alerting me that there's a kebab shop in actual Sandwich called AMIGOS. So this is the story of John and Winston going to get a kebab and maybe some fish and chips too, but because I'm me, things are never easy. 
> 
> Real people belong to themselves. I don't know anyone.

“Well sir,” Charon said as he cleared away the porcelain mugs of tea on the table. “We always knew this was a possibility.” 

This felt a lot like his concierge of twenty years telling him “I told you so.” But Charon was a picture of tact and decorum and something as obtuse as “I told you so,” would never leave his mouth. Still, the man was a master of implication; while that was why Winston had hired him in the first instance, he’d since had the opportunity to learn that Charon’s tongue more resembled a double-edged sword and took no prisoners. 

“They seemed happy enough. Took all the biscuits.” 

“Yes, because you lied to them,” Charon said. “You said, and I quote, ‘I’m engaged to be married at the end of the month.’” 

Winston said, “It’s only the third, I’ve got plenty of time.” A brief anxiety took hold of him and he had to consult his diary. It was indeed only the third of June, which meant things were manageable. 

“The last time I checked, in order to be married, you’d also need a bride-to-be with a valid American passport.” 

“That I do,” Winston agreed. It seemed useless to argue with the facts. Even though the recent leader of the free world was doing his best to flout the basic rules of physics and realpolitik, facts remained the cornerstone of Winston’s existence. 

Charon fixed him with an even look. “I am flattered, sir, but.” 

Winston ignored the jab. “Isn’t Jonathan due back from Naples?” 

John Wick was currently indisposed. His flight from Naples back to New York was delayed due to engine failure and no amount of throwing exquisitely crafted Spanish doubloons at the problem would solve said problem so he eventually gave up and went and had a too-expensive negroni and olives at an airport bar.

John was seven negronis in when a call from the Continental’s general line made him wish he was more sober. He gestured for a glass of water, got it, and counted to five before he picked up the call. 

“John Wick.” 

“Hello, Mr. Wick. If it is not too much trouble, the Manager requests your presence at the hotel.” 

John gulped water. “Still in Naples. So I guess it’s a bit of trouble.” 

Charon was quiet, then he said, “Still?” 

“An engine blew up. They had to switch the crew. And then. I don’t know. I’m at a bar.” 

The concierge was quiet for a moment longer. “Are you intoxicated, Mr. Wick?” 

“A little,” John admitted. 

“It is a matter of some urgency,” Charon said. “So I will arrange for a private jet on your behalf. I can have a plane touch down in Naples in half an hour. There will be no alcohol provided to you during the flight. Do you understand my meaning?” 

“Yeah,” John said, staring at the dregs of his latest cocktail. “I think I do.” 

By the time John touched down in New York and was couriered over to the hotel by the way of an unmarked dark sedan, he was not drunk. He was worse than that. He was verging on hungover, a bit jet-lagged, and he accepted a glass of water from the front desk. 

“I’ll have some coffee sent up,” said Charon. As usual, his expression was like a pristine sheet of glass and gave away nothing. 

John blinked blearily. “Is that your way of warning me about something?” 

Charon appeared to be thinking it over, and John thought it must be a very bad sign. Charon always seemed to be imminently prepared to handle anything that came across the front desk. “You mean, aside from the fact that the Manager doesn’t drink coffee?” 

That was something John knew, and something that he wondered why he thought about again. He’d known Winston for upwards of a decade, and it was true that he’d never known the man to drink a coffee. 

“So there’s nothing that I need to know about?” John stared evenly at him. 

“Nothing that the Manager can’t tell you himself,” said Charon, and no amount of staring could discern from the concierge any more information. John finally gave up on that too, heading for Winston’s private elevator. 

“Are you going to rip me one on what happened in Naples?” 

If he was honest, John had to admit that Naples hadn’t been his best work. Naples was shoddy, extravagant, and would inevitably leave people asking questions and maybe not the good kind even if these messes were precisely how a man in their profession built their reputations. John had yet to understand how Winston had his ear to the ground even a continent away, but he had no doubt that the man had heard what happened and now he was going to get it. 

“Do you really think me so petty, Jonathan?” 

There was indeed a large mug of what smelled like very good coffee. John reached for it before he sank back into one of Winston’s very nice and expensive couches in the living room of the Continental penthouse suite. “Well, there was that one time with the ducks.” 

Even though it was only eleven in the morning, there was a tumbler not far from Winston’s grasp and John could tell that when the man reached to pour himself another drink that it was not the first whisky he’d had today. So maybe it wasn’t about Naples. “That was years ago.” 

“Yes, and I still remember it.” 

Winston said, “And you were meant to. It was a very pointed lesson for all involved.” So saying, he poured himself more to drink and took a seat on the opposite couch. 

John said, “Um.” 

“Yes, quite,” WInston said and stared down at his drink some more. “Tell me, Jonathan. You _are_ in the possession of a valid American passport?” 

“I am,” John nodded. “I don’t use it much now, but I have one. It’s in my safe at home.” 

“Good,” Winston seemed relieved. “What are you doing now? Say, for the next three weeks?” 

John drank his coffee, mostly to buy some time. There was something funny about all this, even if he couldn’t figure out what. “I’m still waiting to hear back from a contract. I want it to be exclusive but I guess they’re jerking me around.” 

“Who owns the contract?” 

“Laurens Visser,” John said. The Dutch were a fairly new breed in town, but he’d gotten to know the man at a poker game and liked him well enough. Plus, there was no way that John or anyone else could fault the man for bringing the good stuff from Amsterdam. 

Winston made a thoughtful noise in his throat and leaned forward to put his tumbler on the table. “Trying to get in on the ground floor, are we?” 

“You keep telling me I should be flexible,” John said. “Why don’t we just cut all of this bullshit out and you tell me what you want, Winston?” Half of that could have come out better, but John was suddenly tired all over again. 

“I,” Winston started. “I’m being investigated by ICE.” 

John frowned, “Immigration? Why?” 

“Heaven knows,” Winston turned his gaze towards the high ceiling of his penthouse as if it held answers. “Every once in a while this happens.” 

“Yeah, and when was the last time?” John arched an eyebrow. He was not asking this to be coy, but out of genuine curiosity because...he’d never known Winston to step outside of the Continental, except a few times and even then, he never left the confines of New York. One could have made the argument that a man never needed to leave the Big Apple because the city was a third of the size of Belgium, but still had everything he’d ever need.

“In 1989, let’s just say President Reagan and I had a disagreement. But we ironed it out in the end.” 

“And you can’t iron this one out because…?” 

“I’m trying to,” Winston said. “Would you like a proper drink?” 

“Still got coffee,” John held up his mug. “And Charon said I shouldn’t drink.” 

“Lucky for you, he is beholden to me,” Winston stood. “And whatever I say goes. I say have a drink. What would you like?” 

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” said John. “What’s that, Scotch?” 

“Not just any Scotch whisky. More like the best that money can buy.” Winston plucked a bottle, about a little more than two-thirds full and thrust it in John’s direction. John read the label, and decided he was not that much up that much on proper whisky. Still, it was a little difficult not to see value in 44-year-old Scotch, if the label was anything to go by. Winston poured John a drink into a tumbler until the liquid splashed against the rim of the glass. 

John stared at it. Then he stared at Winston, although the man was swift in returning the prized bottle to his liquor cabinet, so John mostly ended up looking at the man’s spine. “Okay. I believe you. Before I get very drunk on your very good Scotch, you might as well tell me so I can take my time regretting it. Because that’s what this is, right?” 

Winston looked pained for a moment, as if he was suffering from indigestion. Then he slipped the signet ring that he always wore on his pinky and held it out. 

“I’m hoping you won’t make me go down on one knee, Jonathan. But I really would like it very much if we could get married.” 

John gulped 44-year-old Scotch and felt it burn all the way down. Before he thought too much about it, he said, “I guess we could. I’m free tomorrow. We could go down to the courthouse and have Charon be a witness.” 

“Well, see, there are complications. My godmother would never forgive me if I didn’t tell her.” Winston said, “She’ll insist that things are done properly.” 

John waited a beat and took the plunge. “Who’s your godmother?” 

“Your Majesty, would you like some spotted dick?” 

“Shut up, Marcus.” John said, “I can’t believe you didn’t _tell_ me.” 

Marcus gave John a long look and went back to chopping celery. “Tell you what? Winston’s actually an Earl and he calls the Queen at home?” 

“Well, yeah.” John leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter. “Or. You could have told me that Winston was being investigated by ICE. I could have. I don’t know, taken care of it. Found a way.” 

“Yeah, and what way is that? I’m pretty sure if you did that the entirety of Homeland Security would be up our asses,” Marcus sighed and put down his knife again. 

“You and I could handle Homeland Security,” John said. “We could do it before lunch.” 

“I’m retired,” Marcus reminded him. “And I’d like to stay that way. Which was why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know, okay? Not until Charon told me. Guest Relations have been asking questions.” 

John let out a breath as he watched his friend finish chopping celery and move on to gutting a cantaloupe like he was splitting open a guy’s large intestine. “Should I have said no?” 

“Out of all the unsuitable people Winston probably has in his rolodex, he picks _you_,” Marcus said feelingly. “I’d enjoy it, John. But I’d also remember that it’s Winston. Did he actually give you a ring?” 

“And that’s supposed to mean, what?” The signet ring still sat in John’s jacket pocket, where it hadn’t moved. It hadn’t fit on any of his fingers and it felt somehow wrong to tell Winston to get it resized and ask him again. “Yeah. It’s this.” He fished it out and put it on the counter. 

Marcus glanced at the ring and shrugged. “You know better than I do. Do you want some of this or not?”

“I’d rather eat some spotted dick,” said John and then he put the ring away. 

Winston was famously unattached. Famously, in that he made sure everyone knew it as a security measure. It was his first line of defense. 

All Managers were unattached, more or less, if they had even one clever practical bone in their body. It was not as if Winston stood out having made such a decision. After all, managing the day-to-day happenings of a five-star hotel was difficult enough to juggle without the pressures of upkeeping one’s personal life. Add to that, the Continental’s unusual, literally trigger-happy clientele, the fact that he was now without Guest Relations thanks to Marcus fucking off into retirement, life was complicated enough without one having to worry about his upcoming nuptials. 

This was not to say, of course, that Winston was any sort of novice at fielding such offers of attachment. Ironically, such offers usually came with immediate stipulations of detachment, as if the other party didn’t exactly trust him, or knew that the terms put in place included an expiry date. So on the whole, it just seemed better not to bother. 

John had made him one such offer. His explanation hadn’t been practical, just: “I like you. And I think you like me.” 

“I do like you, Jonathan,” Winston said. “Which is why the answer is no. I think enough of you not to pin a perennial target on your back.” 

“You say that as if I’m not used to that already,” John said, but he had let the matter go and asked if Winston could join him down in the bar for one drink before he had to catch a flight to Barcelona. 

Winston, though he felt funny about the whole thing for about a week afterwards, told himself that he’d been right to refuse. 

The two agents from ICE introduced themselves as an Agent Paul Smecker and Agent Michael “call me Mike” Greenley. 

Greenley looked like any other pea-sprout who’d just gotten lost outside of the Academy into the world. As for Smecker, it alarmed John that he looked remarkably like Marcus, but with bad hair and a suit that Marcus probably wouldn’t be caught wearing in a million years. What was perhaps more interesting and more offensive to Winston was that Smecker asked for a “twist of lemon” with his cafe latte. The waiter looked offended too, but he was determined to earn his tip so he said he’d accommodate. 

This time, they weren’t in Winston’s office at the Continental, but at a cafe on 5th Ave, attached to the Neue Galerie, a gallery which primarily exhibited Austrian and German artists circa the early twentieth century. Apparently Winston had let it slip to ICE that he and his young man liked to come here on Thursday afternoons. 

According to Winston and by extension, the United States government, routines made people normal. 

John opined when they still had the table to themselves, that he’d never been inside. 

“Do you know who Klimt is?” Winston touched his hand. 

“Think so,” John said. 

“Then you’re fine,” Winston looked down at John’s bare fingers. “What’s happened to my ring?” 

“It doesn’t fit,” John told him. “What else do you want me to do with it?” 

“Well, we can get it resized,” Winston gave him a look. “You should have said.” 

“I’m saying now,” John said. 

Over plates of warm crisp-topped strudel and slowly melting sweet heavy cream, Greenley and Smecker quizzed them on the basics: whether or not they were living together (they were, as of this morning, when Winston had sent Charlie to plant a few essentials at John’s address. The man had pointed out that this was not his remit and Winston had to offer him double his usual amount of coin); whether they shared a bank account (they didn’t); whether Winston knew John’s social security number (he did); and then kicker: 

“When was the last time you were uh,” Greenley said and faltered. 

Smecker gave his partner a look. “When was the last time you had sex?” 

Winston said, “Excuse me?” 

“Is that actually a question you have to ask?” John said. 

“It’s on our questionnaire,” Smecker pointed. “Sorry.” He didn’t particularly sound sorry. 

Winston was on his second pot of Assam and John was on his third espresso. They probably looked sleep-deprived but not from sex. Charon had insisted that Winston memorize all of John’s tax returns and insisted that John familiarize himself with members of the Royal Family and that he be able to name all forty-eight counties in England. At last count, John could name thirty-six and held out hope that he could meet a real American actress. 

In Charon’s view, there was nothing wrong with a little over-preparation. 

Except when there was. Winston made a note to have words with his concierge the moment he returned to Continental grounds. 

“ – Does phone sex count?” John said finally. “I’ve been out of the country.” He had been. Laurens Visser hadn’t been too thrilled about John’s sudden unavailability, but then John had to tell him why and Laurens spent a good fifteen minutes laughing before he asked John if he’d like to spend a wild weekend in Amsterdam as a free man. It could even count as a stag do. 

So John went to Amsterdam and killed something like thirty-seven people and did not call Winston for phone sex. He now wondered why the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

Greenley checked the paperwork. “Yes, you were in Amsterdam for…?” 

“My bachelor party,” said John. 

“Phone sex during your bachelor party,” Smecker whistled. “_Intercontinental_ phone sex. That’s dedication.” 

“Yes,” said Winston. “We’re very attached.” He patted John’s hand again and, after a moment’s consideration, curled his fingers almost protectively around John’s knuckles and John tried to remember that they were very much in the presence of two government agents so yeah, maybe they had to put on a good show. 

“Ah well,” said Smecker. “Good for you. Does the Queen know?” 

“I’ve kept her informed,” Winston said. “Yes, she does.” 

“Have _you_ met the Queen?” Greenley turned to John. “‘Cause, you know.” 

John suddenly wanted to kill the guy but restrained himself. “I’m meeting her. But I haven’t yet.” 

“Tonight, actually. We’re catching her after an engagement in Wimbledon,” said Winston, squeezing John’s knuckles so tight that he nearly lost circulation. 

“Are we doing that?” John said. He hadn’t exactly been told. But then he supposed it was halfway fair, since he’d just invented intercontinental phone sex for the government to fill out some paperwork. 

“I’m having Charon arrange it,” said Winston, which was neither a yes nor a no. 

Smecker looked between them. He said, “How long have you been together, again?” He crunched into some feuilletine with his mouth open. It made a horrible sound and John could hear Winston thinking, that the man needed to learn some manners. 

But this, they’d rehearsed for this. They’d taken Charon’s advice, even if John had serious doubts about the caliber of the concierge’s personal life (in that he really didn’t seem to have one), there was also the reality that Charon hadn’t survived this long, not having things pass muster. 

“Florence,” John said. “Five years ago.” 

“That doesn’t count,” Winston countered, with an indulgent, _exhausted_ smile he’d since grown tired of practicing in the mirror. “Paris, three and a half ago.” 

Greenley blinked. “What’s the difference?” 

“We slept together in Florence and Winston only came to his senses in Paris,” John shrugged. “But you know, I don’t mind.” 

“What is this, fuck around the world in 80 days?” said Greenley. 

Winston looked between the two of them. “Why not, if you can afford it? I’m sure you’ve perused our tax returns.” 

“My point is,” Smecker said, “Why now?” 

“You mean, besides the fact that you’re having me investigated for something wholly frivolous? We just wanted to. Isn’t that reason enough in itself?” 

Smecker opened his mouth, and then was interrupted by the loud chirping of his cell. This timing was impeccable for all involved and as the man stood up from the table to take the call, John looked around. He had a feeling they were being watched, but he couldn’t prove it. 

Greenley lowered his voice. “So do you think the Queen will um, approve?” 

“We’re not in the nineteenth century anymore, Agent. There’s not a need to take that tone,” Winston said. “Besides, the family’s survived Camilla. Jonathan’s at least much easier on the eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at how sexy this [menu](https://www.neuegalerie.org/sites/default/files/inline-files/MENU%2011-08-2018.pdf) is.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Marcus said, a bit smug the next time John went around to see him. “Smuckers gets a bit like that, dog with a bone and all.” Then he proceeded to rip John a new one about dragging him _out of fucking retirement_. John opined that it was not exactly his fault, and they moved on after that. 

As far as John could tell, Marcus did not have a twist of lemon with his cafe latte. However, the man was definitely not picky about the things he put in his blender and you never knew what ran in the family. “So you _lied_. You did know Winston was being investigated. You could have –”

“Whoa there, kid. Slow down. Okay, Paul Smecker _is_ my cousin. But I only get to blackmail him once a month. It’s not going to move mountains. Besides,” Marcus fixed him with a freshly probing look. “You’re enjoying yourself a little.” 

John looked down at the signet ring snug on the ring finger of his right hand. He’d worried about it affecting his aim because he usually didn’t take to jewelry. It’d been fine, in the end. Carrying Winston’s ring even made things a little more _real_, this weird insane thing that they were doing. 

“We just announced to the US government that we have a lot of money and we can fuck wherever we damn well please.” (Except in real life.)

“I’d drink to that,” said Marcus as he chugged some sort of thick orange slop and made John wish he’d had a real drink. 

Several days later, John met the Queen. 

She took the personal call in her boudoir and said that she couldn’t speak for long. The Queen was ninety and sharp as a tack. She apologized for the absence of her husband, but he didn’t have good chat, anyway. The Queen, who Winston called Aunt Elizabeth and asked that John do the same, took a liking to John right away. She opined that John had marvelous cheekbones made for the films. 

“And Winston likes cheekbones, don’t you, darling?” 

Winston said, “Well.” 

“I still remember when he pined after the King of Belgium. Now, that was something to write home about.” 

“You pined after the King of Belgium,” John wanted to laugh. “I’m in great company.” 

“I did not _pine_ after the King of Belgium,” Winston told him later after they’d gotten off the phone with the Queen – Aunt Elizabeth. “I was also about nineteen. What does anyone know about that sort of thing then, anyway?” 

“Half of the fun is not knowing?” John said. “What was he like, the King of Belgium?” 

They were in John’s apartment in the Village. Winston had reluctantly started sleeping there in John’s spare room after the former had forcibly dragged Marcus out of retirement and back into Guest Relations to ask ICE some serious questions. It was no good, New York being without Guest Relations. Marcus had agreed, albeit reluctantly. It wasn’t like Winston had left him any choice. 

It turned out that yes, ICE had John’s place under surveillance and so John had taken to slashing tires of all possible tails on his block to give himself (but mostly Winston) some peace of mind. 

“I thought you said half the fun was not knowing,” Winston pointed out. 

“I know almost nothing about you,” John said, and after he’d said it, he realized it was true. Half of this was because that was how upper management reputedly worked, and half of this was Winston being himself. 

“I’m sure Charon’s gnashing his teeth as we speak,” Winston sighed. “What with the all-nighters we’ve been pulling.” 

“You aren’t forty-eight English counties, or how to make a great rhubarb custard crumble.” John pointed out. 

“I like custard,” said Winston. “It’s not a bad start.” 

“But not the crumble?” John blinked. It was not what he was expecting, but it was a start. “Is it because of your new dentures?” 

Winston cut his eyes at him and yeah, okay, maybe it made John twitch in his pants, so it wasn’t altogether a bad thing. If this was the closest he got to having sex with someone who he was supposed to be engaged to, maybe it was up to him to milk the possibilities for all it was worth. “Did you mean to say that to me?” 

“I’m working on my banter,” John shrugged. “Timing’s off.” 

“That was insulting,” Winston said, but he didn’t exactly sound displeased. 

“Like I said,” John said. “I’m working on it. “Do you want some custard? Charon’s finally found me some rhubarb. He had to brave Whole Foods.” 

Winston nodded. “Now, that’s more like it.” 

Winston’s signet ring, which he was just getting used to not feeling naked without, was now fitted carefully around the fourth finger of John’s right hand. He watched as John slipped off the ring and plucked a nicely sharp fruit knife from his knife block. 

After that, John fetched rhubarb wrapped in plastic from his fridge and began to slice the stalks into thin, even pieces. Watching the man work was calming and that wasn’t something you could say about the life of the Manager of the New York Continental, that his life was calming. 

“Do you do much cooking, Jonathan?” 

John said, “No. But cutting rhubarb is a lot easier than slicing open somebody’s arteries. And I’m not under duress.” 

Winston found he couldn’t argue with that, though he wondered if it was ever the case that John Wick was under duress. “Did it ever occur to you to say no?” 

“About?” John said, and then he answered his own question. “You mean, the fact that we’re engaged because I have an American passport.” 

“I wouldn’t have put it quite so,” Winston inhaled. “Yes, that. I suppose.” 

“You didn’t even phrase it like a question,” John turned away from him to swipe the pieces of pieces of rhubarb onto a shallow pan turned on the stove to a low heat. “You said, quote, ‘But I really would like it very much if we could get married.’” 

“Did I say that?” Then again, Winston had availed himself to a lot of Scotch that day.

“Yeah, you did.” John said. He stared at the pan of quietly sizzling rhubarb, as if he was contemplating how to cause it bodily harm. But Winston knew too, that this was how John often thought about things. It was one of the things that Winston found most striking about him, that the John Wick always seemed prepared, with murder fresh in mind – even if he was only preparing rhubarb custard in his apartment. 

Winston drew in a deep breath. “I remember Leopold being very charming.” 

John looked at him narrowly. “Did he have good banter?” 

“I don’t remember,” Winston said, and told the truth. “I spent that entire summer swimming in Pimm’s. It really offended the Belgians. I still think they were missing out.” 

Assassins were naturally lonely people. The nature of the business demanded it. When you dealt with the death of those around you, the assumption was there, that whatever goes around comes around. Once you did your first job, you couldn’t ever rest on your laurels. After all, you might be somebody’s next job, even as an accident or collateral damage. 

John was used to that life. But he read gossip papers once in a while, passing by them on newsstands. If he was really honest with himself (he was, there was no reason not to be), he found himself wondering how those people, little beings trying to become bigger in print or more recently, the Internet, even liked the way they ballooned in other people’s imaginations. It was always better, John thought, more practical, to let one’s work speak for itself. 

“So from Earldom to...this.” 

Winston had cracked an egg into a small glass bowl as per John’s instructions, even though he looked almost confused while doing it, he did it anyway. “Do you want to read my royal biography?” 

John didn’t really read, but he thought that exceptions could well be made for Winston’s _royal biography_. He said, “Do you have one?” 

“It was commissioned,” Winston said. “And then it was withdrawn because I got recruited by the Continental in Glasgow. Guest Relations.” 

John looked at him a little sideways. “Isn’t Glasgow full of drugs?” 

Winston regarded him narrowly. “This from the man who wanted to get into bed with the likes of Laurens Visser.” 

“I’m not upper management. I actually have to work for a living.” John took the rhubarb off the stove and poured cream into another smaller saucepan. “Give me the eggs.” 

Winston found that he couldn’t argue with that. “You can say no. I’ll find someone else.” 

“Who, Marcus? Did you know him and Smecker are cousins?” 

“Of course I did, it’s why he was recruited to Guest Relations. That and he used to forge art.” 

John thought about Marcus’s seemingly indiscriminate taste in fruit and vegetables. The idea that someone like Marcus could make a go at art forgery was on this side of crazy, and John wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Sorry. What? We’re talking about _Marcus_.” 

“Yes, that’s what I said too, when he was first recommended to me,” Winston said. “It all worked out in the end. You don’t need any imagination for passports. Just a good, practical eye.” 

Later, they ate rhubarb custard and crumble together as dinner in John’s living room. It wasn’t very good, but Winston kept eating and that was something. For the first time, John wondered if the man was homesick. 

When a knock sounded on John’s door, he instinctively reached out for Winston to make sure the other man didn’t move from his place on the couch. 

“Stay.” 

“I’m not a dog, Jonathan.” 

John gave him a very long look and reached for the gun tucked under the coffee table. “Stay there anyway. I’ll be a minute.” 

“Is that registered?” said Agent Paul Smecker standing on his stoop and John wanted to shoot him. 

“Um,” John glanced at his gun. “Of course.” It probably wasn’t, but he could put a rush in with Guest Relations. “What do you want?” 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” 

“It’s ten o’ clock in the evening.” John barricaded the door the best he could. “What do you want, like you actually were in the neighborhood.” He had a good couple of inches on the guy and liked his odds. 

“Somebody slashed the tires of my car,” Smecker’s eyes were wide and piercing as he looked John all over again. “Know anything about that?” 

“No,” John said. “Do you actually live around here?” 

“That’d be none of your business. Is he here?” 

“Winston, you mean.” John nodded. “Yeah, he is. We live together, like we’ve said already.” 

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t exactly take your word for it.” Smecker said. “You know, if you refuse to let me in, it could be seen as an obstruction of justice.” 

“Jonathan?” Winston called from the living room. “Is everything all right?” 

“I’m contemplating whether or not to break the law,” John told the truth. 

“That depends,” Winston said. “Is it a felony?” 

John shrugged. “No idea.” 

“Yes, it fucking is.” Smecker scowled. 

When John turned to report that to Winston, he found the other man had already taken in stock of the situation, standing so quietly at John’s elbow that John hadn’t even noticed. Winston looked Smecker evenly in the eye, and John knew that the man in fact knew nothing about the world in which they lived because no sane man, who knew anything, would still stand there and take that in. 

Winston gestured. “Would you like to come in, Agent? If you’re peckish, we’ve made crumble.” 

Winston watched with some distaste as Smecker inhaled subpar rhubarb custard with slightly burnt crumble and thought the resemblance to Marcus uncanny. The man looked like he hadn’t eaten properly for days, but on a government salary and stuck in New York, a servant of the law either paid rent or ate. He didn’t do both. 

“Hungry?” Winston said, wondering if they should have hedged their bets and put something in the custard. Then he thought to himself that even entertaining poison was one of those True Signs of Actual Desperation. Considering all of the options usually on offer to hitmen of their caliber...maybe Winston just needed to go to bed. 

“Starving,” Smecker said with his mouth full. “This is some good shit.” 

John sat stiffly next to Winston on the sofa. Even though John had put the gun away, Winston thought he could still see the man thinking about it, how quickly and how efficiently it would really be, for the soul of one Paul Smecker to leave his fucking body. 

“Come here, Jonathan.” 

“Now who’s the dog?” John deadpanned. “Where?” 

Winston tapped his own shoulder. “Here. Don’t be like that. I’m sorry for earlier.” 

There was a slight light of surprise that lit up John’s expression, but he scooted closer and laid his head on Winston’s shoulder. Winston could smell him, fresh shampoo and slightly burnt crumble clinging to his breath. “I forgive you. I think.” 

Smecker looked between them. He licked his spoon like some kind of satisfied cat fed too much milk and dropped it back into the bowl, where it clanged against glass. “Trouble in paradise?” 

John simmered, with his breathing telling and hot against the crook of Winston’s neck, almost making him shiver. “Wedding stress, I suppose. Aunt Elizabeth has gotten very involved. There was a vague mishap involving color swatches.” If John could dream up intercontinental phone sex, then Winston could have color swatches. 

“Aunt Elizabeth.” 

John said, “The Goddamn Queen.” 

“_Jonathan_,” Winston admonished. 

“...I didn’t mean that.” John raised his head again. “Would anyone like anything to drink?”

Winston said, “Yes.” 

Smecker said, “Actually, I’d like to look around first.” 

It was not too late to make sure Paul Smecker didn’t leave this fucking flat. Marcus, head of the esteemed Guest Relations of the New York Continental seemed to think that disappearing a Federal agent was a bad idea, and on the one hand, John knew he was right.

On the other hand, watching Smecker poke around in John’s second bedroom, the feeling was tempting, and it wasn’t like their world wasn’t good enough to make sure something swallowed you up and that you were never seen again, ICE or not. 

“Whatever you’re thinking of,” Winston stood next to him sipping a few fingers of Glenlivet. “Stop. Have some of this.” 

John sniffed it, but the aroma (a little like wood polish) was lost on him and just smelled like booze. Good, potent booze. He took a sip of it and handed it back. 

Smecker smoothed his hands over the covers and pressed his weight down on it, as if the mattress springs would tell him exactly what he needed to know.

“Who sleeps here?” 

“Uh,” John said, and then Winston touched his wrist. 

Winston said, “I do. From time to time. Jonathan’s hours are unpredictable at times and neither of us like being disturbed. For the sake of transparency, I slept in here last night.” He drank more whisky. 

Smecker stared evenly ahead, although if he was staring at anything in particular was unclear. Finally, he seemed to come back to himself and looked over at the two of them crowded in the doorway. “Ah, yes, hours in, what is it, import-export.” 

John gave a sharp nod. He had to admit it wasn’t a bad variation of truth. He was often not attuned to such subtle details, but there was something both ironic and poetic about exporting a man’s sense of life from his body and then importing said body into an early grave. 

“Sure, import-export. You know how it is. Drink?” 

Winston and John both watched as Agent Paul Smecker stumbled down the stoop from the upstairs bedroom. Maybe he would accidentally export himself somewhere on his way home. 

“That custard was terrible,” Winston said finally. “I can’t believe he ate it.” 

John closed the curtains and leaned against the windowsill. ‘You should see half of the ungodly shit Marcus puts into his fucking blender.” 

Winston appeared to think about this, and then seemed to come to a decision. He folded his hands, as if he was preparing himself to be put upon. “I’m going to regret asking for details, aren’t I?” 

John said, perhaps a bit more snappish than he’d meant to, “Then don’t ask.” 

He could see Winston thinking about that too, and then the man said, “I meant what I said, earlier. It’s not a matter of who else, Jonathan, it’s only a matter of if you wanted to. If you don’t, well.” 

“Well?” Suddenly, the signet ring around his finger felt too tight and John fought the urge to remove it. 

“Well, then I’ll figure something else.” Winston said, “I’ve been lucky so far.” 

“Even now?” 

“After a fashion,” Winston nodded. 

John touched the ring around his finger. “Can you at least admit that what you’re doing is a selfish, asshole move? Once this gets out I – ” 

“I thought you liked me, Jonathan.” 

Winston had a way of looking at a man that stripped him down to his bare essentials. His bones, his joints (so that said bones could be broken), and then finally, his shame. By his own admission, Winston didn’t like looking this way at women because it felt like harassment. Now John, only down to his bones, joints, and shame, rubbed at his own wrist, marveled at how easily Winston could crack his bones – if John wanted to let him. 

Maybe it wasn’t a question of what John wanted, anyway. 

John opened his mouth again, fulling intending on answering, but he was more relieved, when his phone buzzed with a text. It was Laurens Visser, with a small job, Brooklyn. John thought about whether he was sober enough to drive. 

He probably wasn’t, but fuck it. 

“Anything interesting?” Winston gestured at the phone in John’s hand. 

“It’s a job,” John said. “Can I go? I'll probably be back before morning.” He looked down at himself and decided he probably needed to change before he left for the job. 

“You’re a free agent under your own roof,” Winston said, although the way the words twisted on his tongue gave the words slightly unpleasant meaning. “I’m just going to bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

After the job, Laurens Visser invited John out for some all-you-can-eat chicken wings at a hole in a wall that in John’s recent recollection, used to be some sort of vintage bookshop. He remembered the place almost viscerally, because he’d once popped a man who was just about to purchase a first-edition copy of William Blake. 

Viscerally, because although the job had come through without a hitch and John got paid, the bookstore owner hadn’t been too happy about not being paid first, and Winston had worried after the state of the first edition Blake. The few pages that had been salvageable John had slit carefully from the book from the book, hoping it would impress the Manager of the Continental. 

It did not. 

“Of course, it is going to be a front,” Laurens said with his mouth full. “But drugs and fried chicken. It’s like a perfect marriage, no? Might as well spend some time getting it right. I’d like to know what you think.” 

John blanched at the metaphor and nearly thought about doing the man harm with a fistful of chicken bones. It was amusing for about a minute. Winston’s signet ring was tucked away in his pocket because he didn’t want to get grease on it. “Fuck you.” 

“My wife says I can on Thursdays.” Laurens said brightly, and John stared some more. Laurens was older than John but still younger than Marcus, and he had that sort of Nordic coloring that television liked. Or maybe they didn’t anymore, perhaps the Queen had an opinion on that, too. 

“What?” Laurens stared back, mostly in a parody of John’s own surprise. “I work in a flexible business. As do you.” 

As far as John was concerned, what he did wasn’t really that flexible. People died in all sorts of ways in their little corner of import-export, but at the end of the day, the result (death) was the same and unavoidable. So really, thinking of it as something of a flexible venture was lost on John. 

“Does she really,” John said, and willed himself not to sound too curious. 

“I’ve been married for nearly twenty-two years. We’ve changed diapers and my son once almost jepordized a weapons deal with the Italians. Sooner or later, you get bored. So, you have to remember how to have fun. You have to work at it.” 

“How did your son ruin your bid with the Italians?” There was a lot in that answer, and in the end, John decided to play it safe. 

“Threw up on a contract. He was very colicky baby.” 

John tried to imagine Laurens and his wife trying to salvage what was probably a multi-million dollar contract from their baby’s puke. Finally, he gave up on that too. He asked, “How are you not divorced?” 

“Divorce is expensive and showy. Not so good.” Laurens waved down a server and motioned for more wings and some house mayo laced with some sort of chili grown in South America (possibly illegal). “Besides, Agnes is like me enough. We both like to get on with things, you know?"

John didn’t really. 

“Have you talked about it with him?” Laurens said, chewing. 

“Who?” 

“Winston, your _fiancé_,” Laurens now looked at him. And then he said, “Well, in my lifetime I didn’t think that sort of sentence would come out of my mouth.” 

John said nothing. He motioned a server for a refill of his beer and got it. “He’s not my.” 

“Yes, he is.” Laurens lifted his own pint glass and clinked it against John’s. “Whether you like it or not.” 

Winston felt the mattress dip beside him and instinctively reached for the gun he knew John kept in the end table drawer. 

“Too slow,” John said. He had his own piece out, and WInston felt its muzzle press against his collarbone through the soft silk-cotton of his pyjamas. “Did I wake you?” 

Winston waited until the muzzle had left his immediate proximity and reached for the lamp. “In a manner of speaking.” 

“Sorry.” 

WInston rather got the feeling that John wasn’t. 

John got up from the bed again and Winston watched as he shed himself of his coat, his guns, his buttoned shirt. There was also a strange smell in the room, like fast food. It was a usual enough smell, but not one usually found in Winston’s immediate proximity. 

“Did you get something to eat?” 

“Like you said,” John deadpanned. “The custard was terrible. Laurens took me to his new fried chicken place. Said it might be a front but he might as well get the food right. I brought some leftovers. Do you want some?” 

“Well, if you’re offering.” 

Winston followed John into the kitchen, where a paper bag with grease pooling at the bottom sitting one of John’s counters. It didn’t look particularly appetizing, but it still smelled good. He sat on one of the stools as John dumped lukewarm wings onto a plate. 

“You’ll probably have to eat with your fingers,” John said. He went to the fridge and popped open a can of beer. 

“That suggests you don’t think I can.” Winston stared at the plate in turn. He hated to think that John might be right. 

John just raised one eyebrow. 

“Could I have a beer?” 

“Here you go, one for courage,” John plunked a can down in front of Winston, without any pretense save for simmering anger. Despite that anger never being too far below the surface, John was ever slow to anger. Winston had known him over a number of years to make a number of stupid decisions, but it could also be said that there was a world of difference between stupidity and anger.

Winston knew of both, at different times of his life, and now he liked to think he knew neither again, but maybe he was wrong. He drank a little of the beer and decided that he’d take whisky over beer any day. 

“If you’re angry with me,” Winston started. 

“I don’t get angry, Winston. If I did, I’d probably never stop. Aren’t you going to eat?” 

“Anger is freeing,” Winston said. “And honest.” 

“I’m not the one that isn’t honest.” John looked at him. “If you wanted to be honest, you can answer a question.” 

Winston picked up a wing, damp with a dazzling combination of sauce and fryer grease. Despite this, it was not the worst chicken he’d ever had. “I’m an open book.” 

“Why did you refuse me? When I asked, before, I mean. We could have avoided this.” 

“You ask that like it’s a simple question,” Winston sighed. 

“It is simple,” John said. He was suddenly in Winston’s space, sucking up his air and Winston had to seek refuge in more chicken wings. Between not wanting to succumb to very particular brand of absurdity and being quite hungry, the wings seemed like a surer bet. 

“I think it is.” John leaned forward and caught Winston’s chin. Winston suddenly forgot how to swallow. 

When John’s mobile rang, piercing the silence with an insistent buzzing noise, Winston swallowed and said, “Shouldn’t you get that?”

John said, “Really.” 

“Really, it might be important.” 

John let go of him but didn’t step away. He fished his phone out of his pocket and stared at the Caller I.D. “It’s Marcus.” 

“Well.” 

John rolled his eyes and put the phone to his ear. “This better be good.” Then he said, “...What?” 

“So...apparently he fell over in a ditch and they had to pump his stomach.” Marcus informed both John and Winston in the waiting room of a bustling hospital. “Know anything about that?” 

Winston shrugged. “Agent Smecker did pay us a surprise visit. Was it food poisoning?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Marcus said blearily, swiping a hand across his eyes. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept, but it wasn’t as if he was unused to that sort of thing. Maybe he was still getting used to being out of retirement. 

“I made some terrible rhubarb custard; we both did.” John said. “But we all had some.” 

“All I did was crack an egg,” said Winston. “Don’t rope me into this.”

“Rope you into what?” 

“You made,” Marcus started and then stopped. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Anyway, it’s not food poisoning. That sort of thing wouldn’t take Smuckers.” 

John said, “Right.” Maybe Marcus had a point. 

“His system’s got more alcohol in it than blood,” Marcus said. “But he’ll pull through. Or else I’ll have no one to make fun of at Christmas and that just depresses me. Moreover…” Marcus gave them both a cursory glance. “Are you two okay? Did I interrupt um.” He made a gesture, a rude one, that gained the attention of a nearby nurse who threw him a dirty look. 

John and Winston exchanged a look. John thought that Winston was contemplating his options and trying to work out how much it would cost the Continental and WInston’s personal ventures if he were to fire Marcus again. Not that he was fired last time. John had watched Winston for long enough to recognize the disappointment that seized Winston’s frame, when the scales said he couldn’t afford it. 

John touched Winston’s shoulder. “Why are we here, Marcus? This isn’t exactly my purview. And you woke us up.” 

“Misery loves company,” Marcus said. “And at least I was getting laid. So fuck you both, I guess. For doing the one fucking thing I told you not to do.”

“It’s not like we put a.” John sucked in a deep breath and let it go. Semantics were more up Winston’s alley. “Isn’t that Smecker’s partner?” Mike Greenley had burst through the doors of the hospital waiting room brandishing his FBI badge like it was some of gun half-cocked. He dropped it, and no one looked amused. A nurse hurried up to Greenley and handed him some disinfectant. 

“Right.” Marcus waved them away, “Go home. I’m going to try to fix this goddamn mess.” 

“Did Winston tell you about the King of Belgium?” John asked Charon, as he served the concierge of the Continental a cup of the good coffee he was too lazy to make most of the time. 

“Leopold?” 

“I think that’s his name.” John nodded. He was about to crack a can of beer open when Charon dispossessed him of it. 

“You’ll need your wits about you,” Charon said, putting the can pointedly back on the coffee table. “This isn’t like one of your other jobs. All of the information has to be accurate and on point.” 

John sighed and sat down, too. He had a feeling he was meant to translate that to something like ‘you can’t fuck up the way you usually do.’ John said, “We’ve gone over this a thousand times. And I know about Leopold.” 

As if it physically pained him, Charon stared down at the pile of papers strewn all over John’s sofa. John knew it was the concierge’s preference that they meet at the Continental. However, Winston was apparently stuck in meetings all day and he’d rather not have any added distractions at the hotel. “This is the last time we get to rehearse all of this, Mr. Wick, before I throw you to the wolves. As the Manager would have no doubt told you, I’ve relinquished your wedding to much more capable hands. Apparently the Duchess of Cambridge was quite _insistent_.” 

“Is there anything you can’t do?” John had to think. “And that one’s...Kate? I don’t believe for a moment that you can’t be just as insistent.” 

“Sometimes restraint is the better part of valor,” said Charon. “The last time I planned a wedding was 1999. Not even in this millennium.”

John was learning things. Little things, like how Winston liked sleeping on his stomach and that he maybe mumbled in his sleep. He was also learning that Charon was not new to the complex ritual of wedding planning, but at the same time, the fact that wasn’t all that surprising, either. 

Charon said, “May I speak frankly, Mr. Wick?” 

“It’s not like I can stop you.” Or John _could_. It just wouldn’t be the best idea. 

“The Manager prefers being alone,” said Charon. “But I don’t think he likes it.” 

“Wedding planner, relationship guru,” John groused. “You’re full of surprises, Charon, you know? Is it that obvious that we’re fighting?” 

Charon looked at him. “So you’re fighting?” 

John was lightning quick when he grabbed his beer again and cracked it open before Charon could reach for it. He chugged half and felt better. He didn’t know if fighting was the word for it, but ever since they’d landed Agent Paul Smecker in the hospital for alcohol poisoning, the tension had escalated in John’s apartment and not lessened. Add to that the Duchess of Cambridge wanting to oversee their wedding at the family seat belonging to the Earl of Sandwich in Dorset, things had still managed to reach a fever pitch without the two of them exchanging more than a couple of sentences at a time. Usually, in John’s not entirely naive experience, such tensions naturally escalated to sex.

So far, no luck yet. 

“Can I speak frankly?” John said. He tried to be on his best behavior in front of Charon most of the time, but recent events had set him on edge. 

“Always.” 

“I should have said no,” John said. “Okay? This is...what is this, anyway? I won’t work again after we marry. I know that.” 

“You wouldn’t need to. The Manager’s assets are sizable. Even his legitimate holdings would be more than enough to,” Charon cut himself short. “I’m missing the point, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah.” 

Charon smoothed his fingers over one of the files. “Mr. Wick, if you could think about it for one second.” 

John was pretty sure this was Charon’s version of his patience wearing thin. 

“The Manager left one world for another. And yet he’s chosen to stay in this one. He’s not like you or me, who only know one world.” 

“I can’t think of a single universe in which you and I have anything in common,” John said. He was saying this mostly to be polite to Charon. “Can we just start? I have something to do later.” 

“If you wish,” Charon reached for one of the files. “What’s the Manager’s favorite restaurant?” 

“It’s not a restaurant,” John said. “It’s a what’s it takeaway. Something ridiculous called Amigos that doesn’t serve tacos.” 

Charon waited. John drank more beer and drummed his fingers on his knee. 

"I don’t know." After a moment, John tried again. "Pizza?” 

Charon twitched, but then he settled back into himself. “We can start there.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a kebab,” said John. “Does it taste like chicken?” 

Winston gave him a look. “You could always ask the kitchen to fix you some. But it probably wouldn’t be right. Have you packed?” 

“Under supervision.” John nodded. 

They were in Winston’s office and John spied a stack of forms that looked a lot like orders for new linen. Despite himself, he still liked watching Winston work. The man was methodical, quick, and sure of himself, even now. Maybe this was why Winston was doing this now, that managing the ins and outs of an international hotel was the only thing that made sense. 

“I’m glad,” Winston said, checking the tip of his fountain pen very carefully. After a moment, he went back to writing. “I know it must seem ridiculous to you, Jonathan. But it did help in Glasgow, my tastes, then.” 

“You like what you like,” John said. “You know I’m not like that.” He went over to the desk and touched Winston’s wrist. “But you toughed it out in Glasgow, bolstered by kebabs.” 

“I did.” Winston paused and turned his head. “In spite of what you might think of me.” 

John dropped a kiss near Winston’s hairline and felt the man freeze. “I’m going to get a kebab. You sure they’ll make me one?” 

“They indulge me,” Winston shrugged, although the rest of him looked like he hadn’t yet completely recovered. “Like I said, it won’t be the same.” 

John said, “I don’t think I’ll know the difference.” 

As he left Winston’s office, he thought he was beginning to understand.


End file.
